


All The Power In Me Moves

by MellytheHun



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Body Worship, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Cheesy, Confessions, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, I'm Sorry, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Missing Scene, Music, Oral Sex, Rimming, Romance, Soppy, Supernatural Chaos, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wings, so cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: TV-Series-Specific; a take on what could have happened back at Crowley's flat, after the End of the World failed to end the world.





	All The Power In Me Moves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Night_jade14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Night_jade14/gifts).



> Songs: "I Want It All," by Queen, and "Two Men In Love," by the Irresistibles

“You think they’ll come for us in the morning, then?”

 

“Without a doubt,” Crowley tells Aziraphale, allowing them both into his flat with a flick of his wrist, rather than a key.

 

When Aziraphale wondered why Crowley didn’t bother with keys, Crowley explained that one of his preferred methods of torture on unsuspecting humans is to add keys to their key rings that don’t actually go anywhere, or open anything. Occasionally he likes to wipe memories of keys, so people look at keys they once recognized, and then wonder what it goes to, without ever remembering, but they keep it, because they know it once went to something that they’re sure they’ll remember. Crowley seems to think this very diabolical of him.

 

Apparently his own affinity for doing this to others, though, made him paranoid about keeping his own; that a wily, bored demon might do the same to him. So, he doesn’t bother with them, lest he find himself with more keys on a key ring than he meant to have, or without memory as to where his keys go.

 

Aziraphale can only shake his head fondly at that; Crowley does often create more trouble for himself in the process of trying to make life harder for humans. It’s just a touch endearing.

 

Crowley keeps a few steps ahead of him as they enter, intent on getting to the kitchen first, and pouring them both a drink. He’s a polite host - Aziraphale isn’t sure what he expected, that he’s surprised by that.

 

Aziraphale takes his time to walk through the foyer, though - not having been to Crowely’s place… well, maybe ever.

 

Now that he stares into Crowley’s home, he wonders what he was so scared of all this time.

 

The place is nice, if a little austere for Aziraphale’s tastes.

 

He looks at the ornate mirror frame on the wall past the door (it looks like something he swears he’s seen in their preferred opera house in the States), sees a safely framed page of sketch parchment he knows belonged to DaVinci (it’s only sketches of hands, but they’re beautiful, and elegant in their simplicity - he can see why Crowley kept it), there’s an authentic Edward Hopper painting, and he passes several hanging plants on the way as well.

 

“I imagine both sides are scrambling to find a way to punish us, you know, respectively,” Crowley tells him from the kitchen, “They don’t know what to do, as it stands, must be confused as all get-out, but they’ll have something concocted by morning.”

 

“Mm,” Aziraphale agrees, running a fingertip along the perfectly verdant leaf of one of Crowley’s petrified plants. (Aziraphale can _feel_ their terror, and while he pities them, he can’t imagine there’s anyway to stop Crowley from bullying them - it’s currently the least of his troubles).

 

On his way toward the main rooms, though, finally exiting the foyer, he passes a statue of a bird with its wings spread out - that, in and of itself, isn’t what’s strange - it’s that he _recognizes_ the bird that’s strange.

 

He can’t place it to a certain artist like he could with the other pieces, and he certainly can’t think of where he’s seen it before - it doesn’t look so strongly familiar that way. More like a tickle in Aziraphale’s peripheral memory.

 

Crowley is speaking again, but Aziraphale can’t hear him; it’s as if he’s under water, or something.

 

He’s staring at the statue of the bird, knowing that he absolutely knows it from somewhere - where has he seen that bird before?

 

“Aziraphale? Alright?”

 

“Yes, dear - where did you get this piece?”

 

“What? The Hopper? You like it?”

 

Aziraphale waits for Crowley to return to the foyer, two wine glasses in hand, and sunglasses still on.

 

Not that it’s not always hypnotizing at least a little (and it always is), but the way Crowley’s hips swing when he walks toward Aziraphale is deeply distracting. There’s an odd, gangly grace to Crowley that Aziraphale quite likes; it doesn’t suit him, but it suits Crowley beautifully. Crowley is so opposite, but so very likeable the way he is.

 

And Crowley is just Typical Crowley as he approaches, apparently ready to discuss obtaining the Hopper painting, until he spots what piece it is that Aziraphale is actually asking after, and then all the air in the flat seems to change.

 

He only _just_ visibly stiffens at the sight of Aziraphale near the statue, and an emotion (a _powerful_ one), trickles out of him, like a tub only just overflowing at the brim, onto the ground. Aziraphale can sense it, but can’t tell what it is.

 

“It’s nothing. Just something I picked up at a secondhand shop.”

 

That’s a lie. Aziraphale can feel it.

 

“Oh?” Aziraphale plays along, “What shop?”

 

“Oh, uh… you wouldn’t know it,” Crowley tells him - that’s a weak lie, and Aziraphale is very nearly insulted by the lack of effort.

 

“I know every shop in London. We both do.”

 

“It was at a different time, shop’s not there anymore.”

 

Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest, finally beginning to wonder what in the world Crowley would have to hide, and his irritation is showing when he asks, “ _what_ time?”

 

“I don’t remember! It was so long ago,” Crowley lies.

 

“I see,” Aziraphale says, faking a tone of surrender, “Well. What date was it that you rescued me from the French, again?”

 

Crowley, with his confidence coming back, smirks, and answers, “November fourth, seventeen-ninty-three - we got crepes.”

 

“Any chance you remember my order?”

 

“I like the savory ones, but that makes it easy to remember your order, because your order is always something sweet,” Crowley explains, “I recall it being peaches, and cream.”

 

“You’ve got all that logged away, and you’re going to try and convince me that you don’t remember when, or where you got this _statue_ that you keep in your _home_?” Aziraphale accuses.

 

Looking as pleased as a hosed down cat, Crowley shrugs, managing not to spill wine with the gesture, “I don’t know! Sometime in nineteen-forty-one,” Crowley answers; finally a truthful answer, “Happy?”

 

“Not entirely, no,” Aziraphale confesses, looking back at the statue, “I can’t imagine what you’re trying to hide from me, and it’s making me uneasy.”

 

“Well, I do hope you let it die,” Crowley says, “because, I can’t tell you about it.”

 

Aziraphale twists around at that, curiosity piqued beyond reason, and simultaneously feeling teased, and insulted.

 

Crowley only extends one of the glasses of wine as an addition, which Aziraphale takes without thinking; it’s reflexive, at this point, to just accept anything Crowley hands to him. That probably ought to trouble Aziraphale more than it does.

 

“Why ever not?”

 

“You remember what you said to me in the Bentley - it was nineteen-sixty-seven, in Soho - you remember?” Crowley asks, taking a drink of his wine.

 

Aziraphale blushes to his hairline, looks away from Crowley, and admits, “well… yes. I do.”

 

“‘ _You go too fast for me, Crowley_ ,’ you said - and I get why you said it, I do,” Crowley insists conversationally, “Vague enough to claim plausible deniability - if cited again, you could say you were just commenting on my driving, as I had just offered to take you anywhere you might like to be - but also specific enough, to me, that I’d understand what you meant. And I did, didn’t I? Forty years I gave you. Forty years, away from me, and all the trouble I bring.”

 

Feeling guilt bubble up into his throat, Aziraphale’s brow furrows with worry, and he looks down into his wine, muttering, “no, I… you didn’t have to - I never meant -”

 

“I listened,” Crowley interrupts, and continues, not unkindly, “Right? I listened. You didn’t want that ride with me. Didn’t want to be alone with me again, could you help it. That was too much, too fast. So, trust me. You don’t need to know about the statue.”

 

Frowning deeply, Aziraphale moves his gaze to the bird again, and he inexplicably smells ash - can almost taste it on his tongue.

 

He remembers reading that the human sense of smell is most closely associated with memory, and so he clings to the smell, hoping for more insight.

 

He breathes in deeply, shutting his eyes, trying to remember - why ash? Where was there ash? He can’t recall a fire. Why would Crowley keep this bird? What was the significance?

 

And then it hits him (ironically, quite like bricks toppling down over his head) - London, the Church, nineteen-forty-one. Crowley walked on consecrated ground to rescue him, and he was standing just in front of that _very_ statue.

 

“Can we move from the foyer now, Angel?”

 

Aziraphale picks his head up, staring at Crowley, wondering if Crowley _knows_.

 

But he mustn’t - if he had known, he would have said something by now, certainly.

 

So, Crowley _doesn’t_ know.

 

He doesn’t know.

 

Could be their last corporeal night on Earth, and Crowley _doesn’t know_.

 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, the human heart his host keeps thundering away, “You really don’t know.”

 

“Know what?” Crowley asks, cocking a brow over his black lens.

 

Aziraphale approaches Crowley carefully, feeling that he may be the one going too fast, now, with the way Crowley’s looking at him.

 

“You never let me thank you,” Aziraphale says plainly, placing a hand over Crowley’s left lapel, “You could have burst into flames that night, you know. You weren’t exactly practiced in stepping into Churches, especially Churches occupied by working Angels - you had no way of knowing what would happen when you stepped inside, but you came for me anyway. You’re reliable, Crowley. Deeply so.”

 

Flushed, Crowley raises a hand, maybe to remove Aziraphale’s, but it stops in midair, not yet touching Aziraphale, but not falling either - and he doesn’t move again.

 

“I don’t want you to thank me.”

 

“No, you don’t,” Aziraphale agrees, “You’d like something else from me.”

 

From under his lashes, Aziraphale dares to look up at Crowley, nearly challenging him to argue that point, but Crowley seems stunned.

 

“Did you ever confess?” Aziraphale asks, spreading his fingers widely across the space on Crowley’s chest, feeling Crowley’s humanoid heart pounding just as hard as his, “Even to yourself?”

 

“To myself,” Crowley utters, very hoarse, lower too, than normal, “You don’t owe me anything, Aziraphale.”

 

“What would happen if we stopped using words like ‘owe,’ or stopped calling them favors, and Arrangements?” Aziraphale wonders aloud, “Would we just have to admit that we care that much about each other?”

 

Huffing out a laugh, Crowley tells him, “your side certainly wouldn’t like that.”

 

“Don’t have a side anymore,” Aziraphale reminds him, staring at Crowley’s bouncing jugular, “I’ve got you.”

 

His eyes flicker up to Crowley’s, and he catches just a glimpse of dilated pupils in wide, round eyes behind those dark lenses before the lenses darken further somehow - bit of demonic power, Aziraphale assumes; trying to hide.

 

“Oi - if you don’t want to feel just how fast I can go, Aziraphale,” Crowley warns, finally latching onto Aziraphale’s wrist, “now would be a very good time to back up, and pretend this didn’t happen.”

 

“You’d never force yourself on me, Crowley,” Aziraphale announces, confident and sure, “You’ve the patience of a Sai-”

 

“ _Stop_ it,” Crowley snaps, pressing their chests together, “I could scare you away, Aziraphale.”

 

“I’d love to see you try.”

 

Momentarily astonished again, Crowley hesitates, then throws his glass of wine onto the ground - he’s displeased when Aziraphale doesn’t flinch at the sound.

 

He uses both his hands to cup Aziraphale’s face, but Aziraphale isn’t intimidated - in fact, all he can think about is how soft Crowley’s hands are. They’re warm, satin-soft, and he doesn’t know why he waited so long to interact with Crowley’s hands - maybe the same reason he didn’t go to Crowley’s home all these millennia.

 

Maybe because, deep down, he knew precisely what would happen.

 

That this would happen.

 

“Go on, then - scare me, darling.”

 

Aziraphale has exactly enough time to gasp before Crowley is on him, pressed against him from thigh to chest, hands on Aziraphale’s neck and cheeks, lips on his, pressing hard, feeling desperate.

 

After a beat, Crowley pushes his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth, and that shocks him well enough to drop his own glass. It isn’t fear that drives him to empty his hands, though - it’s a need to hold on.

 

Because this is fast. It’s petrifying.

 

He wants more.

 

A hand brushes through Aziraphale’s white-blonde curls, so tenderly, with such care that he whimpers, wishing he’d had the courage for this type of thing ages ago, because there’s this incessant howling in him that he hadn’t noticed until Crowley’s kissing had silenced it.

 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in Crowley until now, or that he wasn’t interested in having sex with Crowley until now - on the contrary, Aziraphale has always loved Earthly pleasures, pleasures of the mind, and the flesh. He’s loved his comfortable, sophisticated clothes, he’s loved his soft couch cushions, he’s loved long carriage rides, he’s loved dancing, he’s loved chatting, he’s loved his delicious foods and drink, he’s loved his books, his shop, and partaking in human activities - in the pleasures of ordinary men.

 

Sex with Crowley had always seemed like such a wildly unobtainable, and unwise thing - it was just a daydream. Something to imagine in the place of protagonists in naughty romance novellas; something to think on during late hours, when drink, and food, and literature, and all his other very human pleasures had lost their appeal, and he was truly alone with his thoughts.

 

He hadn’t needed to choose a sex, and he hadn’t intended to, in fact, until tailored suits came into the fashion picture.

 

Once he saw suits on human men, he thought ‘that’s dashing, I must have it!’ - but they all looked a bit wonky on him until he decided to alter his physical form to allow for a more defined sex.

 

He’s never put it ‘to work,’ so to speak, though.

 

And beyond all his reason, Aziraphale’s hormones (if he has them, as humans comprehend them) aren’t the type to run wild.

 

He _is_ a being of unadulterated love, though.

 

It’s what makes him up - it’s what makes him, _him_.

 

He _loves_ , and loves so deeply, so truly, so instinctively - he _is_ love, and he loved Crowley before he knew Crowley, as he loves all things, and he didn’t exactly fall in love with Crowley as much as he sauntered slowly downward into love with him.

 

He only realized he wanted Crowley to see him as more than a friend that night in the Church.

  
Crowley handed him those books, and he couldn’t help it.

 

He stared after Crowley, frozen, wondering if he’d ever be able to kiss Crowley, like human lovers do. If Crowley would ever _want_ to kiss _him_.

 

Then that ceaseless pining began, haunting Aziraphale’s every peaceful hour, interrupting his readings, making his toes and hairline tingle at just the remembrance of Crowley’s face.

 

For a short time, he even wondered if Crowley had purposefully Tempted him, but - Crowley hadn’t, of course.

 

Crowley had just been unapologetically Crowley, around Aziraphale, and every moment more he spent with Crowley, his love grew, and changed shape, and it made him want, _want_ , **_want_**.

 

“Get out of here.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Aziraphale pleads, lips still warm against Crowley’s, “Don’t tell me to go. Tell me to stay.”

 

“You don’t want this, Aziraphale. You’re just scared.”

 

“You’re damn right I’m scared,” Aziraphale remarks, darting his eyes back and forth between lenses, “If our plan doesn’t work, Crowley, this will have been my last night on Earth, and I need you to know how I love you.”

 

Crowley pauses, then smiles weakly, backing away, “you’re an Angel, Aziraphale. I know you love me.”

 

“No, no, no, you idiot!” Aziraphale argues, holding tightly onto the sleeves of Crowley’s jacket, “I _adore_ you, I cherish, prize, _worship_ you! Can’t you feel it? Don’t you know?”

 

But, of course Crowley can’t feel it.

 

He’s not an Angel.

 

“Come here,” Aziraphale tells him, spreading his arms, and carefully unfurling his wings, “Please.”

 

Reliable as ever, Crowley obeys, stepping into the cocoon Aziraphale’s wings make around them; there’s a Heavenly glow that comes from every surface of Aziraphale’s form, and Aziraphale can tell it hurts Crowley’s eyes, possibly his skin, but he’s patient too - as he’s always been.

 

He thinks of how wild, and untamed Crowley’s hair was in the beginning days, and how proud he was to sport his serpentine eyes. He remembers being so safe, being so stern with Crowley, and then, holding his hand on the bus ride to the flat.

 

And how readily it was that Crowley _took_ his hand.

 

“I forgive you, Crowley,” Aziraphale tells him, tears building up in his eyes, knowing it’s not enough, knowing he’s waiting for something that will never be, “I forgive you. I forgive you for asking questions, and Falling, I forgive you. I forgive you.”

 

In Aziraphale’s embrace, Crowley wriggles, and asks breathlessly, “is that what this is all about? Aziraphale, you can’t Save me. I’m -”

 

“I know I can’t, I wish I could, but not… that’s _not_ what this is about,” Aziraphale explains, holding onto Crowley more tightly, meshing his spirit against Crowley’s, “I need you to know. I need you to know it all.”

 

Aziraphale knows it’s begun when he hears Crowley gasp - it’s flashes before his own mind’s eye, the story of being In Love with Crowley From Afar, of containment, of shame, of shame over his shame, of wishing, of wanting, of waiting, of pining, thinking of him always, and Crowley sees it all.

 

“I was so content to spend all eternity here with you,” Aziraphale says softly, wondering if he’s causing Crowley much pain, feeling sorry for it, but not sorry enough to stop, “Was that not tell enough? And here I thought I was so obvious. I thought we could have a cottage someday. Live together. Forever. Somewhere our wings could spread, and I could kiss you, love you, day and night.”

 

Joints pop, Crowley’s ribs creak, his corporeal body filling up to the brim with everything Aziraphale hasn’t let out in all these years.

 

Every night he spent wondering on Crowley’s wellness, wondering how he kept busy at night, and then wishing that he hadn’t wondered that.

 

Every day he spent hoping he’d see Crowley walk through the door of his shop, and then punishing himself the rest of the morning for hoping it, even though he knew he’d hope for it again the next day.

 

Every desire to sit just a little closer to Crowley that Aziraphale managed to talk himself down from.

 

Every gravitational pull toward Crowley that Aziraphale worked tirelessly to escape.

 

Every sideglance he couldn’t help but give Crowely’s alluring silhouette, handsome profile, and oft spread legs (always, as if, in invitation).

 

Every moment he wished he were in the circle of Crowley’s arms that Aziraphale felt fear, and shame for.

 

Every urge to kiss Crowley that Aziraphale subdued.

 

“Aziraphale…”

 

“I’m in love with you, Crowley,” Aziraphale confesses plainly, “Terribly, deeply, so. I need you to know.”

 

“I feel it - I feel you, I believe you,” Crowley tells him, something watery in his strained voice, “I love you back, Aziraphale.”

 

“Can you?” Aziraphale asks, tears slipping more freely now, his doubts making themselves apparent; he never imagined Demons could love as Angels could.

 

“Of course I can,” Crowley says softly, “I’ve been in love with you since the dawn of time, Aziraphale. Since I met you at the gate. It killed me when you told me I’d gone too fast for you - I’d waited about six thousand years to even imply I might like to take you back to mine. Broke my heart, you did.”

 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale moans, dragging Crowley up by the jaw to kiss him, overwhelming him with love, a massive storm of webbed heartstrings in the safety of his wings.

 

“I didn’t realize - I thought you -” Crowley manages between kisses, “I never thought you’d -”

 

“I know, I know, I’ve been an idiot - you’ve been one too, but I - I should have said something. I’m sorry. Forgive me, Crowley.”

 

Crowley laughs, but Aziraphale pulls away so Crowley knows he means it; they stare at each other, and Aziraphale finally takes Crowley’s glasses away, petting a thumb on one of his sharp cheekbones, admiring his eyes.

 

“Forgive me. Please.”

 

“Obviously, Angel, I -”

  
“Please.”

 

Stiltedly, Crowley nods, but Aziraphale is having none of that; “please say it.”

 

“I… I forgive you.”

 

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers to him, wondering at the burning sensation on Crowley’s cheek, “Thank you.”

 

He keeps one hand on that left-side lapel, but Aziraphale’s free hand strokes the long line of Crowley’s back, and he as he does, he feels Crowley’s breathing grow more unsteady.

 

“Have you ever wanted me, Crowley?”

 

“Fuckin’ _aye_ ,” Crowley hisses against his lips, “Of course I want you, Angel. I can’t -”

 

“You can,” Aziraphale intercepts, “You should. I want you to.”

 

Sudden, unnatural thunder booms outside the flat, and Aziraphale smiles, teasing, “what? Is that all it takes to excite such a spectacularly powerful demon these days?”

 

“ _You’re_ all it takes for _me_ , Angel,” Crowley croons.

 

Beyond Crowley’s control, his wings are pushed from his back - it’s not painful, though - it’s as if a huge gust of wind runs through him, from the inside, and expands his wings for him.

 

The wings, while involuntarily being unfolded, knock over several plants, and break the closed cocoon of Aziraphale’s wings, exposing them both to each other, allowing a few inches between their bodies.

 

He smirks at Aziraphale, cocks a brow, and asks, “and you? Just a little romance get you going that quickly?”

 

“Is it really how you feel?”

 

“Give it a try,” Crowley dares him, eyeing him closely, “Tell me something pretty, Angel.”

 

Aziraphale blushes deeply, but doesn’t break eye-contact - he watches Crowley’s pupils dilate as he says, “I love you. More than anything.”

 

“Mm,” Crowley breathes out, his narrow pupils rounding out now, as he takes hold of Aziraphale’s wrists, “Tell me more. Tell me something steamy.”

 

“I want - I want… I want to make you squirm the way you make me squirm,” Aziraphale admits, his ears burning; he turns his hands over so their palms meet, and fingers lace, “I want to mold my body into yours, Crowley. I want to be some _one_ , phenomenal thing with you - being independent of you has entirely lost its appeal, and I… I want it tonight. I want it right now. You. All of you, in every conceivable fashion.”

 

Crowley’s eyes have never looked more like a ring of fire.

 

“Come to the bedroom, then, sweetheart.”

 

It’s a fascinating affect; Crowley’s voice, Crowley’s endearment, and Crowley’s eyes should be frightening - maybe to anyone else, they would be, but Aziraphale finds them acutely, distressingly arousing, instead.

 

“Sweetheart?” his voice cracks.

 

“I’ve been pining after you for six thousand years, Aziraphale, I think it’s fair to call you my sweetheart. Is there something else you’d like me to call you?”

 

_Handsome, Love, Sir, Master, Daddy, Lover, Trouble-maker, Stud, Fox, Darling -_

 

“My, you’ve thought about this, huh?” Crowley asks, short of breath.

 

“Sorry, was I projecting all that?” Aziraphale inquires, gripping onto Crowley’s hands a bit tighter, “That’s embarrassing. I’m sorry, I read trash novellas sometimes, and it’s happened, once or twice, that I substituted a protagonist for you, so I could project my fantasies, and, well… I’ve read varied genres.”

 

“Clearly,” Crowely half-jokes, tugging Aziraphale closer by a half-step, “Well, come on then, Lover. To the bedroom.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself, overcome, but very much willing to be taken further into the flat.

 

He passes the kitchen - bleak, and empty, the room full of trembling plants, the piles of papers strewn about, all with various locations (including Alpha Centauri - it does something, to Aziraphale’s heart, to see the evidence of Crowley’s ponderings, even after he swore he’d leave Aziraphale behind, wishing him a happy Dooms Day - the man cares _so much_ ).

 

To Aziraphale’s fascination, Crowley does away with his shirts by flicking his wrist, and making it so, but bothers with his pants, socks, and shoes, the way humans do.

 

It’s endearing, for some reason, and so Aziraphale follows suit.

 

“You came back for me,” Aziraphale mentions, Alpha Centauri still on his mind, as he leaves his belt on the floor, “You always come back for me.”

 

“Side effect of being head over heels, darling,” Crowley replies, approaching Aziraphale so he can touch Aziraphale’s bare chest, “Leaving you behind is as good as staying. I’d rather die with you at the end of the world than live a single day in this universe without you in it.”

 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale says gently.

 

Smirking, Crowley draws his hands away, and walks backward, until he can fall back on his bed.

 

Now, Angelic/Demonic wings are not gentle, or fragile like birds’ wings. They’re sturdy, with full bones, and thick muscle - so, when Crowley falls back on his bed, legs spread, hair a ruffled mess, with his wings spread out behind him, he looks positively _pornographic_.

 

Aziraphale can feel fantastic heat from his hairline to his toes.

 

Beyond his control, or knowledge, all the streetlights in London flicker.

 

“Climb atop, darling. I want you.”

 

At that, all of Crowley’s electronics (and all the streetlights in London) alight briefly - a big, bright flash, then power down, and the bedroom floor is subsequently covered in multi-colored roses - Crowley quirks a brow, and asks, “unless this is too fast for you?”

 

“I…” Aziraphale steels himself, joining Crowley on his bed, prowling on top of him, and spreading his own wings over them both, “I have waited to do this until the end of the world, Crowley. I don’t know that I can be trusted anymore, with words like ‘slow,’ or ‘fast.’”

 

“ _Your_ speed is what matters,” Crowley assures him, sitting up on his elbows to better look Aziraphale in the eye, “Aziraphale, I’d wait all eternity for you.”

 

When a flower crown appears spontaneously atop Crowley’s head, his expression falls, and Aziraphale is forced to laugh; “I’m sorry! When you get all soppy like that, I can’t help it!”

 

“Tell me what you want,” Crowley suggests, putting his hands on Aziraphale’s upper-arms, “Tell me, and you’ll have it.”

 

“I… I want to give myself to you. I want it all, Crowley.”

 

_Adventure seeker on an empty street._

_Just an alley creeper, light on his feet._

_A young fighter screaming, with no time for doubt,_

_With the pain and anger can't see a way out._

_It ain't much I'm asking, I heard him say,_

_Gotta find me a future - move out of my way!_

_I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, and I want it now!_

_I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, and I want it now!_

 

There’s a type of alarm system next to Crowley’s bed that also acts as a radio - maybe as sentient as the one in his Bentley, as it is clearly just as able, and prone to playing on-the-nose Queen songs.

 

Crowley, embarrassed, goes to shut it off, but Aziraphale stops him.

 

“No, it will help ease my nerves,” he tells Crowley, thinking too, that it’s cute that Crowley’s powers also effect surrounding electronics, “Let it play.”

 

Nodding, Crowley relaxes again, wrapping his lanky arms around Aziraphale’s neck, dragging him down for a kiss, “tell me what you want, how you want it, and you’ll have it, okay, Angel?”

 

“Okay,” Aziraphale agrees.

 

_Listen all you people, come gather round._

_I gotta get me a game plan, gotta shake you to the ground._

_But just give me, huh, what I know is mine._

_People, do you hear me? Just gimme the sign!_

_It ain't much I'm asking, if you want the truth,_

_Here's to the future, for the dreams of youth!_

 

_I want it all! (give it all, I want it all)_

_I want it all! (yeah)_

_I want it all, and I want it now!_

 

Long, languid moments melt by, one after another, rich like honey, kissing Crowley, feeling at his forked tongue with a full, human one, and groping at Crowley’s sides, gasping when Crowley rakes dull nails through his hair.

 

Aziraphale opens his eyes only briefly, sees Crowley’s eyes shut so dreamily, sees the blush rising in his high-set cheeks, his neck, his ears, and when he pulls away for just a moment, sees Crowley’s pert nipples, heaving chest, hard cock - and the lights flare, and flicker all over the flat (and, of course, across London).

 

“Aziraphale - Angel -”

 

He sounds so in need, and Aziraphale wants so much to please him.

 

So, he moves down Crowley’s body, and could he smile with his mouth so otherwise occupied, he would, at the trail of swearing Crowley gasps out.

 

_I want it all! (yes, I want it all)_

_I want it all! (hey!)_

_I want it all, and I want it now!_

 

_I'm a man with a one track mind,_

_So much to do in one lifetime. (people, do you hear me?)_

_Not a man for compromise, and where's, and why's, and living lies,_

_So I'm living it all, yes I'm living it all,_

_And I'm giving it all, and I'm giving it all!_

_Oh, oh yeah, yeah,_

_Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,_

_I want it all!_

 

“Oh, Angel, oh, sweetheart - you-you have no right to be good at this - how are you good at this? R-Remarkably-remarkably good at this. H-oh!-How? Nevermind, I’m the jealous type, don’t tell me. Fuck - fuck -”

 

Crowley’s fingers are shaking in Aziraphale’s hair, but his touch is a gentle massage - Aziraphale thinks Crowley might be worried about hurting him. A firm hold wouldn’t hurt at all, though, and Aziraphale might even like that, but he isn’t about to direct their first sexual encounter; he'd like to know what an uninfluenced, organic Crowley is truly like in bed.

 

However gentle Crowley is, he wants Crowley to be, and his Demon is a gentle, gentle man.

 

Wings twitching, muscles straining, Crowley mutters something about being very close, and that cues Aziraphale to pop off him.

 

“You’re incredible,” Crowley breathes out, harder than ever before, aching to come.

 

Aziraphale smiles at him; his jaw is tired, but he’s far from done with Crowley. He’s so beautiful, flushed like he is, his cock jutting from him, hard as anything, pulsating, and he wants Aziraphale. Aziraphale can feel it.

 

So, it’s love.

 

“Turn over, darling.”

 

_It ain't much I'm asking, if you want the truth,_

_Here's to the future,_

_Hear the cry of youth, (hear the cry of youth), (hear the cry of youth)_

_I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, and I want it now!_

_I want it all, yeah, yeah, yeah!_

_I want it all, I want it all, and I want it now!_

 

He grips at the back of Crowley’s hair, tugging his head back, kissing and biting his neck, and feeling him groan; all of Aziraphale’s body trembles with delight at the sound.

 

“You spoil me, Crowley.”

 

There’s snakeskin that lines Crowley’s spine, the scales of which seem to lift, and shift into feathers by his shoulder-blades.

 

It’s a lovely, poetic transition.

 

He can sense Crowley is self-conscious about it, but Aziraphale doesn’t know that he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

 

He lets his hands roam, and he spends time touching the most sensitive parts of Crowley’s wings, watching how Crowley twitches, _squirms_ , shakes, and it’s so lovely, it’s so wanton, it’s so sinful, it’s so damnedable, it’s so _perfect_ , so bloody perfect, so beautiful, so _everything_ -

 

“Are you sure you -”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale exhales, “Positive.”

 

He holds Crowley’s cheeks in either of his hands, and he digs his nails into the flesh there, having wanted to grab hold of his arse in those tight pants for centuries now - it’s a cute arse, and something very primal, almost animal, in Aziraphale, is telling him to mark his territory.

 

That cute arse is on Crowley, but by Heaven and Earth, that cute arse is _his_.

 

_And, I want it (now)!_

_I want it, I want it!_

 

He crouches down, fits himself behind Crowley, spreads his cheeks, and licks with a broad stroke, from his perineum to his scaled tailbone; Aziraphale wonders if anything in his life thus far has been as immediately, and enormously rewarding as the sound Crowley makes when he drops from his elbows, and clutches at his pillows.

 

It’s a beautiful sound.

 

Wanting more of it, Aziraphale works on Crowley, holding his cheeks apart, kneading the flesh there, slicking him with an eager tongue, loosening him, and all that lovely Demon can do in response is moan, and cry out, and call out his name, and summon lightning and thunder right outside the flat, and it’s _gorgeous_.

 

Aziraphale slides his tongue into Crowley, as far as it will reach, and he feels a rush of blood to his head when all of Crowley’s body tightens around him.

 

“Oh-oh _fuck_ -!”

 

Aziraphale is actually quite happy to stay precisely where he is, but Crowley turns his head, trying to pull in air, trying to regain his sensibilities, but Aziraphale thinks he’s grown very fond of Crowley, minus sense.

 

When Crowley speaks, he means to snap it, means to order Aziraphale, and Aziraphale knows because he can feel Crowley’s fangs, as though they were his own; he’s a debauched mess, as it is, so Aziraphale isn’t sure Crowley ever had a chance at sounding demanding, but even so; Crowley speaks.

 

When he does, it comes out on an urgent breath; "now, Aziraphale, Angel, Love, please, please," and how could Aziraphale deny him?

 

Poor, sweet Crowley, clawing desperately for relief now is so shaky, and wrung-out with desire, that he seems to doubt his ability to get on his hands, and knees. That’s all fine, though; Aziraphale pulls him up, and back, the line of his cock sliding between Crowley’s cheeks, wet, and perfect friction.

 

Happy to support Crowley, Aziraphale goes to press into him, just like that, at his own pace, but Crowley makes a whining noise that stops Aziraphale.

 

He’s worried for a split second, but it isn’t pain, or anxiety taking hold of Crowley; he only seems perturbed that he can’t see Aziraphale, nor balance well enough to reach up, and grip his own cock for a release he's not truly, truly desperate for.

 

“You don’t have control,” Aziraphale notes, voice lower than he’s ever heard it himself, “Do you want it back?”

 

“No. Not yet. Press me down, sweetheart.”

 

Butterflies materialize out of thin air, drawn out of the room, toward Crowley’s now very confused, and trembling plants, and the amount of flowers in the room has tripled - the floor is no longer visible at all, and if they were to step off the bed, the petals would be up to their knees.

 

“Alright,” Aziraphale confirms, gently lowering Crowley back down, onto his elbows, and knees - he’s sin incarnate.

 

Aziraphale loves him.

 

By human standards, this encounter could have taken much longer, but (and Aziraphale is not entirely sure how Crowley does it) Crowley makes his body accommodating for Aziraphale; slick, wet, flexible, and Aziraphale is able to fit himself into Crowley as good as a companion puzzle piece, slowly, though, he does it.

 

“Oh, Heavens,” Aziraphale groans, watching at how Crowley’s skin and flesh stretches for the girth of him, flutters, and swallows him to the root - he’s quite lightheaded.

 

He takes just a moment to breathe once he’s fully seated, and Crowley bows his head, shaking, his wings expand as if for flight, and Aziraphale asks if it’s okay to move, because if he doesn’t, he might spontaneously combust.

 

“Yeah,” Crowley encourages, “You can move.”

 

Aziraphale keeps on his knees for maybe a full minute, then crouches over Crowley, curling over him, thrusting slowly, and kissing the back of Crowley’s neck. It’s tender, and slow, and, apparently, not at all what Crowley expected.

 

“W-What are you thinking?” Aziraphale asks, unable to decipher the energies surrounding Crowley, as he’s usually able. He’s experiencing some type of sensory overload, but he’s perfectly happy to soak in it.

 

Crowley’s every breath is a gasp, his fingers are curled violently in his sheets, and he simply says, “just want to see you.”

 

Aziraphale stops moving, though his flesh protests greatly.

 

“Want to see you too,” Aziraphale mumbles, suddenly unable to stand the fact that he's not gazing into Crowley's face this very second.

 

He helps negotiate Crowley onto his back, and though there are butterflies, and flowers everywhere, lightning and thunder right outside, and there is absolutely nothing innocent about the way Crowley looks, Aziraphale’s soul is warmed beyond comprehension.

 

Crowley looks glorious.

 

“Nothing in all the circles of Hell, or all the music in space, or all the seas and lands of Earth, or all the eternal stretch of the Heavens is even a modicum… as beautiful as you are.”

 

Tears well up in Aziraphale’s eyes, thinking _of course_ \- of course Crowley is a soppy romantic.

 

He ought to have known.

 

He didn’t know, though. He didn’t foresee that, and so Heavenly light fills the room, and Aziraphale apologizes, but it gets lost in his kiss.

 

He leans down over Crowley, slides back into him, ruts, and kisses Crowley’s jaw, “you’re the most wonderful being in all Creation, Crowley. I mean-mean it. You’re the most perfect, most beautiful thing that’s ever, ever been, and I love you - I love you so much.”

 

At every upward thrust Aziraphale makes, Crowley matches it with noises like sobs, though his fangs are descended - normally that’d be a bit threatening, but now it seems as if it’s just a thing that’s beyond his control, and that’s cute, somehow. Also deeply arousing again - Aziraphale wonders if he ought to worry about being so turned on by Crowley’s more Demonic features, but he can’t help it, so - why worry?

 

He loves Crowley. He loves everything about Crowley.

 

The reality of their situation hits Aziraphale over the head with its heaviness, suddenly, with just how terribly out of his depth he is. This has been, always, and still, everything he has ever wanted, and he has no idea if he’ll be able to keep it.

 

Or if it’s just for tonight.

 

By morning, they may be stolen from each other, and from the Earth, and all he will ever have is this one night with Crowley.

 

The thought is unbearable.

 

Crowley is arching toward him, wings straining, calling out his name like a prayer, and the storm cell that the flat is in the eye of grows louder, more powerful, and Aziraphale has to do something, anything besides rock into Crowley’s vice of a body, and mouth inarticulate moans.

 

He means to make some plea to the Almighty, but when he tries to speak, all he manages is, “I love you, I love you, Crowley, I’ve always loved you, always, always,” open, and needy, and desperate.

 

“I love _you_ , Angel,” Crowley breathes back, “I - _anh_ \- oh, _God_ , I love you -”

 

“Let me kiss you,” Aziraphale pleads, and Crowley tries to let him.

 

“Careful of the f-fangs - can’t control it -”

 

Aziraphale comes in closer, his hips pistoning in and out of Crowley punishingly now, and they’re sharing this glowing sheen of sweat, but it’s lovely, somehow.

 

It’s so lovely.

 

He kisses Crowley, wrapping a hand around Crowley’s cock, and he strokes, a sure, careful rhythm in time with his thrusts.

 

“Oh, Heavens, what if it’s only tonight? W-What if this is all we ever-ever have?” Aziraphale stammers breathlessly, lips still pressed against Crowley’s kiss-swollen mouth.

 

“Then tonight is e-everything,” Crowley answers him instantly, “It’s everything, it’s all-all that ever was, is, w-will be, and it’s perfect, and I wouldn’t trade it - wouldn’t trade it for anything, Aziraphale.”

 

Crowley’s long, twiggy legs cross at the ankles over the small of Aziraphale’s back, his hands grab hold of neck, and hair, and he groans in torturous pleasure before adding, “not even if-if the Almighty Herself offered to S-Save me, Angel. Wouldn’t trade a second w-with you. Not a _second_.”

 

“ _Oh_ , **_fuck_** ,” Aziraphale cries, driving himself as far as he can into Crowley, as hard as he can; distantly, he hears Crowley murmuring broken pleas of, ‘ _oh, God_ ,’ ‘ _oh, Angel_ ,’ _‘Aziraphale, please,_ **_please_** _,_ ’ but Aziraphale does not find out what it is Crowley needs, because they’re both coming quite suddenly, in long, wrecking pulses, and at the risk of the entire infrastructure of London.

 

The storm cell dissolves like a whisper on the wind, and the Heavenly light emitted by Aziraphale and his wings dim down; all the streetlights in London will need repairs in the morning.

 

The flowers, and butterflies remain perfectly intact.

 

Silence threatens to drown them both in fear, but then a sweet piano tune begins to play from the same radio that belted Queen before; it’s like nothing he’s ever heard play near Crowley before.

 

He asks what Crowley is up to, with his brows, but Crowley doesn't deign to answer.

 

_If I asked you now,_

_Will you be my prince?_

_Will you lay down your armour,_

_And be with me forever?_

 

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale whispers to Crowley, kissing him gently, hugging him closely.

 

_When you open me,_

_All the power in me moves._

_How you want to see,_

_All the depths of me, real._

 

_When you open me,_

_All the power in me moves._

 

_I feel real._

 

_I love you, love you._

_I love you, love you._

 

“I love you,” “yes,” “I love you back,” “always have,” “always will,” “yes, I know,” “I know,” “I love you,” they repeat, overlapping each other, hands everywhere, unable, and unwilling to part.

 

There are so many things Aziraphale doesn’t understand in the Ineffable Plan (as would be expected).

 

Why it is ice-cream is so delicious, or waistcoats so handsome, or why Crowley makes him feel so complete, so seen, and heard.

 

And loved.

 

_When I look into your eyes,_

_There's a danger inside._

 

_When I see the edge,_

_I can never hide._

 

_See me running, running, running, running, running,_

_Running, running, running, running, running,_

_Running, running, running, running, running,_

_To you, from you, to you._

 

He thinks it’s fine if he never understands it, though.

 

Because for all he doesn’t understand, there is one thing he knows with every certainty he's ever possessed.

 

_There's a strange love inside,_

_It's getting louder, and louder, and louder, and louder, and louder._

_There's a danger, I can't hide,_

_Who I am, it's who I am,_

_It's who I am, it's who I am._

 

_I'm in love, I'm in love_

_I'm in love, I'm in love_

_I’m in love, I’m in love_

 

“If tonight’s all we ever have, Angel,” Crowley starts, voice scratchy, hoarse, and music to Aziraphale’s ears, “I’m so grateful.”

 

_I’m in love, I’m in love,_

_I’m in love, I’m in love,_

_I’m in love, I’m in love,_

 

“So grateful,” he mouths against Aziraphale’s lips, and neither of them breathe a word about their tears, or the want for so much more than tonight.

 

_I’m in love, I’m in love,_

_I’m in love, I’m in love._

 

_I'm in love, I'm in love,_

_I'm in love, I'm in love,_

_I'm in love, I'm in love._

 

At the start of all things, to the end of them both, whether tomorrow leaves only memories of each other, or a promise for something better, they have this night.

 

He’s had Crowley to have, to hold, to worship, and love, and whether the plan works or not, he feels Saved.

 

_Gonna build you up, gonna help you believe, sonny._

_Gonna build you up, gonna help you be free, honey._

 

And, isn’t such a natural, perfect type of riddle, that Crowley would be the one to Save Aziraphale?

 

Aziraphale doesn’t understand it, of course.

 

But he knows it.

 

And that’s enough.

 

_There's a strange love inside,_

_It's getting louder, and louder, and louder, and louder, and louder._

_There's a danger, I can't hide,_

_Who I am,_

_It's who I am, it's who I am._

 

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_

_I'm in love!_


End file.
